


Forget Your Troubles!- Come On, Get Happy!

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Pasiphaë and the Bull [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, an exploration of the intersection of coping mechanisms and actual preferences, despite that description there's very little substance here, disguised as a simple story about two criminals doing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...We're going to the Promised Land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Your Troubles!- Come On, Get Happy!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the last part of the series- just in time for it all to get Jossed tomorrow. There's really no 'here', here- just a little bauble to round it out. Thank you for enduring, Dear Readers.  
> The title and the quote used in the summary both come from the song, Get Happy, by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler. I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

In the days and weeks after his grand revelation, Oswald wonders: is this gratitude? Is that what Oswald tastes? On Maroni's lips, his throat.  
All over his skin- his wrists, where he kisses, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt- his shoulders- pulling it down, and off- his cock, almost all the way down his throat, when he's sitting at the edge of the bed, one hand at his side to steady himself and the other between his own legs.  
Whatever it is, it means, surely, that Oswald is back on the throne.  
Back on something, anyway. When he's undressed, bruised and trembling, pushed back, moved around. Pulled up, and then drawn down, fixed on this point. Here, in the dark, held up, in this ridiculous position. His hips hurt. His knees hurt. His right leg is a column of pain. He grits his teeth, and lets himself fall forward. There comes tremendous relief, and he sighs. Maroni laughs, low in his throat, in the dark. For his trouble, Oswald gets pulled in, pulled up, back into what he tried to escape.  
“Ah,” he sighs out, the sound pulled from him, like it's a silk thread wound up in in his throat. He clenches his eyes shut, feels his head turn down, his shoulders move up. “Mmm.” He sucks in his lower lip, bites. He's moved again. Without his directing it, his head turns to the side. Is his body his own anymore?  
“Just like that,” Maroni says, insufferably cool.  
It hurts. It doesn't hurt Maroni. Just him. His hips, his knees, his legs- both of them, now- his shoulders. Places in him he can't name, or wouldn't dare try. He moves his hips.  
“Just like that,” Maroni says again, a little less cool, a little less put together.  
“Like this?” he stutters out. It's terrible, but he makes himself move again. The sound that comes out of him is revolting. He moans. Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no- it's too much.  
“Yeah.” Maroni's breaths are shortening to meet him. Both of them, stabbing into the flesh of the darkness with these little breaths like knives.  
“Oh. Oh. Will you hold-” he takes Maroni's hands, moves them up to his hips, smooths them over his aching bones. “Hold me- hold me up.”  
“Just a little bit longer.”  
“I know.” He places his hands over Maroni's, lets himself draw in the warmth from his hands. That's better.   
“Like that.”  
“I know.”  
Then, Maroni pushes up, hard. New pain crushing through the old, tearing into him- or tearing something out of him, like roots yanked from the ground. His head falls back, and he's making a sound he can't describe. It hurts, but the feeling is too rich and too soft to just be pain. Or, maybe, he's gone so far- he's gone too far- too far to ever like anything normal again. It pushes him, and he pushes through it, the last few seconds, moves in ways he knows he's going to regret. Lets it flood over him, the rough and smooth.  
Oh. And then, it's over. He's pushed back, all the way back, until he's lying down. Maroni's on top of him, warm and solid and still. He's being kissed, and that's good. It's like falling into a warm bath, that sense of softness, unending. Oswald puts his arms around him, holds him as close as he can, touches his shoulders and his face.  
“Is it like that with her?” Oswald exhales, not thinking.  
Maroni laughs. “Jealous?”  
“Maybe I am,” Oswald says, still holding tightly. He can't let go. Since he knows it, now, there's no shame. There's no shame in something that you can't hide.  
Maroni pulls back, looks at him. “No. It's not the same. She doesn't make me work for it.”  
Oswald looks at him.  
“Nothing's ever easy with you. It's not easy for you, either, is it?”  
Too quickly, Oswald looks down, and Maroni slips a finger under his chin, makes him look up again.  
“If it were, would you want it?”  
Oswald thinks. No. He shakes his head. “No. No, I wouldn't.”  
“Neither would I. It's how you see what you're made of.” Maroni pushes back Oswald's hair from his eyes, and Oswald leans up into his hand.  
“And what am I made of?”  
Maroni laughs, caresses his face, from his forehead to his cheek. “Terrible things.”


End file.
